John Clare, Poemas
-
Upload
atalantarm -
Category
Documents
-
view
14 -
download
2
description
Transcript of John Clare, Poemas
John Clare
Summer moods
I love at eventide to walk aloneDown narrow lanes o’erhung with dewy thorn, where for the long grass underneath, the snailjet black creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.I love to muse o’er meadows newly mownWhere withering grass perfumes the sultry air,Where bees search round with sad and weary droneIn vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there,While in the juicy crn the hidden quailCries ‘wet my foot’ and, hid as thoughts unborn.The fairylike and seldom-seen landrailUlters ‘craik craik’ like voices underground,Right glad to meet the evening’s dewy veilAnd see the light into glooms around.
The Ants
What wonder strikes the curious while he viewsThe black ants’ city by a rotten treeOr woodland bank –in ignorance we muse,Pausing amazed, we know not what we see-Such government and order there to be;Some looking on and urging some to toil.Dragging their loads of bent stalks slavishlyAnd what’s more wonderful –big loads that foilOne ant or two to carry quickly, thenA swarm flocks round to help their fellow men.Surely they speak a language whisperinglyToo fine for us to hear, and sure their waysProve they have kings and laws and them to beDeformed remnants of the fairy days.
I Am
I am –yet what I am, none cares or knows;My friends forsake me like a memory lost:-I am the self-consumer of my woes; -They rise and vanish in oblivion’s host,Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes;-And yet I am, and live –like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,-
Into the living sea of waking dreams.Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life esteems;Even the dearest, that I love the bestAre strange –nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes, where man hath never trod,A place where woman never smiled or wept,There to abide with my Creator, God;And sleep as I in childhood, sweetly slept, Untroubling, and untroubled where I lie,The grass below –above the vaulted sky.
To John Clare
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?The Spring is come and birds are building nests,The old cock robin to the sty is comeWith olive feathers and its ruddy breast,And the old cock with wattles and red combStruts with the hens and seems to like some best,Then crows and looks about for little crumbsSwept out by little folks an hour ago.The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes,The little boys lets home-close-nesting goAnd pockets tops and taws where daisies bloomTo look at the new number just laid downWith lots of pictures and good stories tooAnd Jack the Giant-killer’s high renown.